


PTSD- Post Traumatic Sherlock Death

by MadasaMoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Delusions, Poor John, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadasaMoriarty/pseuds/MadasaMoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead. And John is coping. He is. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John didn't want to open his eyes. Didn't want to push back the blankets, scrub at his teeth and try to face the day. John wanted to curl against the pillow, squeeze his eyes shut and pretend the last three weeks never happened. He wanted to wake up to the sound of violin music or gun shots, wanted his flat mate to poke his head around the door and make a show of asking for permission before using his gym socks as eye ball packaging for some hair brained experiment no one else in the world would ever find a use for.

But the last three weeks had happened. Moriarty had happened. And John's flat mate would never again keep him awake into the wee hours of the morning, or lace his coffee with hallucinogens, or blind fold him and drive him out into the country and ask him to identify their location by the taste of the dirt. Because Sherlock Holmes was dead. Had been buried two days ago.

So John opened his eyes. He pushed back the blankets, scrubbed his teeth and forced himself to face the day. Or at least, to face breakfast.

John shuffled into the kitchen of 221b. Baker Street. He hadn't been able find another place in his price range. Not without taking another flat mate. And he wasn't up to that. Not yet. Though he supposed, after Sherlock anyone else would probably be very easy to get on with.

"Probably be a bit boring." John mumbled to himself as he set the kettle up for tea. The kitchen was cleaner then John had ever seen it in the months he'd lived there. Mrs. Hudson had packaged Sher- packaged the extra things and moved them down to 221c. Where they'd be out of the way while something was figured out to do with them.

The place seemed incredibly empty now. John drummed his fingers against the counter. Trying not to think of the argument he would've probably been in at that moment if...if he wasn't alone.

"Could always argue with myself." He cleared his throat, running a thumb over a nick in one of the cupboards. "Though there doesn't seem to be much point. Considering I'd just agree with myself." He cleared his throat again, glancing around the flat to be sure it was empty as he caught himself talking to his self for the fourth time in half as many days. "Going a bit crazy. Was bound to happen with a room mate like-" The whistle of the kettle interrupted him and he turned to his tea gratefully. Setting that aside to steep John set about his usual morning toast, humming the melody to a song he couldn't remember in an effort to hold off anymore one sided conversations.

He set the bread to brown and turned to the fridge, half expecting to see another man's head looking out at him. But the kitchen wasn't the only thing to have been emptied in the last near month. Molly had swung by nearly a week ago and emptied the fridge of any postmortem people parts as well, and John tried not to miss the reek of it as he reached for the butter and jam. The toast popped up and John set about buttering it, failing to keep his mind blank. He had to set the knife down as he found himself musing on the possibility of Molly loaning him a foot or something for the fridge, just for nostalgia's sake. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a breath out through his nose and snatched up the jam.

"Mental." He breathed, struggling to remove the lid.

"Mmm. I agree." Sherlock muttered behind him. "Molly's far too ethical to be loaning feet. It twists the other way John."

"Uh." John nodded his thanks as the jam lid finally came loose and then froze. The jar of preservatives slipped from his fingers, falling sideways and splattering across the counter. "Sherlock?"

Silence. Gripping the counter for support, John turned slowly. The kitchen was empty. Sherlock's chair pushed up against the bare table. No sounds coming from any other corners of 221b. John was alone.

Of course he was. "Sherlock is dead." John forced the words out, remembering his therapist had mentioned something about acceptance. "Sherlock is..." His teeth clenched together, refusing to release the last word. Once was his limit. Once was bad enough. Releasing a shaky breath John slid to the floor pressing his face into his hands. He was alone.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

And even though they made the pain double in his chest John was glad the words were only in his head. He only wished that in that moment they didn't seem so true. 


	2. Chapter 2

It had been several days since John's...'episode' as he had decided to call it, and there had been no repeat performances. He'd chalked it up to too many restless nights, and prescribed himself a few extra hours of sleep. God knows he needed it. It felt like years since he had slept through the night. He was half used to it. He hadn't come away from the war without a few 'home videos' to keep him remembering. He'd gotten used to it then. As much as a man could.

But then he'd met Sherlock, got into working cases between a few hours of proper work and the nightmares had slipped away for awhile. Whether it was from exhaustion or something more psychological he wasn't sure. Didn't care, just so long as the dreams stopped coming. But now...

Now he was afraid to get into bed at night. Afraid to close his eyes on the tube. Afraid to drink a sodding cup of tea after ten PM. Afraid that if he did, both his wars would come back to haunt him.

John jerked awake at the gentle knock at his door, staring down at the paper in his hands in confusion, blinking away half formed images of Westwood suits, and rippling pool water. He must have dozed off. He tried to shake the sleep out of his head as he added reading the paper to his list of 'don't's; and went to answer the door. The knock came again just before he grabbed the handle and he swung the door open.

Sherlock smirked at him.

"Hello John."

He jerked back with a strangled yelp, blinking hard and fighting not to fall on his arse.

"Oop. You alright dear? Almost had a bit of a tumble." Mrs. Hudson teetered through the door, bearing a covered dish. "Just thought I'd bring something by to be sure you didn't go hungry."

"Mrs. Hudson." John wasn't sure if he was relieved. Or disappointed. She gave him a smile as she carried the tray to the kitchen, setting it at the table and fussing about for a plate. John followed her slowly, leaving the door hanging open behind him. He watched Mrs. Hudson spoon out what looked like shepherd's pie, trying to decide between wrapping his mind around what he'd seen and forgetting it completely.

"There you are dear, now you just sit down and have a few mouthfuls of that, and I'll see about giving this place a bit of a seeing to."

John ran a hand down his face, taking a seat and pulling the plate across the table from Sherlock's place to his own. He forked up a bite and gave Mrs. Hudson a look while she pretended to sweep crumbs off the counter.

"Thought you weren't our housekeeper?"

Mrs. Hudson reached over and gave his head a sharp tap, fighting a smile.

"Cheeky." She turned to the living room, and John dug into his food. It tasted a lot better then the toast he had been living off of for the last few weeks, he felt suddenly ravenous as the weight of the first few bites settled into his stomach.

"The body needs sustenance John."

His eyes jerked up and met the icy cool gaze of Sherlock, watching him over steepled fingers.

"Sher-"

"I do wish you'd have let me get rid of this old thing John."

Mrs. Hudson's voice drew his eyes momentarily from the apparition seated across from him and when he looked back the chair was empty. He stared for a moment and then forced himself to turn away as Mrs. Hudson kept speaking.

"Don't know why he kept the ruddy thing in the first place..."

John wolfed a few more bites but the hunger had left him along with the vision of Sherlock and he turned instead to watch Mrs. Hudson as she regarded the old skull on the mantle. He thought perhaps she was trying to look disapproving but had only managed a sort of bitter fondness.

"It's not decent." She turned away, wiping a finger across her eyes and clasping shaken hands in front of her skirt. "Keeping a dead man's head..."

John hunched over his plate, scraping his fork through lumps of tomato, and minced lamb, swallowing down the bitter nausea the thought of Sherlock's life always brought. Mrs. Hudson slumped into John's worn old arm chair, leaning her face into her hand and they shared a long moment of melancholy silence.

"Yes. Well, Sherlock never was very decent was he?" The name almost strangled him but he forced it out, offering Mrs. Hudson a wan smile that was mirrored instantly.

"No he wasn't." She chuckled sadly and her hand was back at rubbing at her eyes. "I know this hasn't been easy for you dear."

"I'm fine." He stood up, his chair screeching across the linoleum and fixed her with his most defiant look. "Absolutely fine."

"Liar." Sherlock smirked from his chair in the living room, running his fingers silently over the strings. Only severe shock kept John from reeling back into the sink and in the next instant the detective was gone and Mrs. Hudson was talking.

"- and I don't want you to feel rushed dear, I know what it's like. And after Sherlock anybody'd have a bit of a rest but I will need it John I can't pay for this place on my own. There's so much needs doing, and I can't do it, with my hip, but you take your time love and get it to me when you can, no worries. I'll not turn family out into the street." She offered him a maternal smile, John simply stared trying to put the words together into something that made sense, but he kept getting interrupted by the far too recent memory of Sherlock staring at him over his violin, which was in itself buried somewhere down in 221c., with the damp and mildew. Like Sherlock was buried beneath his headstone, in the wet and mud.

He shook the melancholy from his head and focused back on his landlady with some difficulty, she was saying something about having a bridge game with Mrs. Turner and lemon biscuits in the oven. He nodded and tried to look politely interested.

"And do think about the rent John. I know your off a job but anything helps."

Rent! So that's what all that was about. He made a noise of agreement, nodding and ushering her out the door. The click of the latch was like the release of a great weight and John sank unceremoniously to the floor. He felt stretched and empty. He wanted to climb back into his bed and pull the sheets up over his head. Rent, job...people...they all seem to hang from his neck like lead weights, drowning him in reality when all he wanted to do was disappear into a desert of memories and dreams. Good dreams, not the hellish apparitions of the last month.

"Illusions. Hardly worth bothering with."

His head snapped around and he stared, determined not to look away, not to blink. Sherlock stared indifferently at him, sitting cross legged in his chair like he had countless times before.

"You're not real."

"Astute of you."

John searched for something to say. He wasn't real. He shouldn't say anything. He should close his eyes until he went away and never mention it to anyone. He shouldn't pray for him to never leave again, shouldn't stare until his eyes hurt, shouldn't hope to God that he was crazy or dead so that Sherlock never had to leave him again. He shouldn't. But he did it all anyway. Finally he found a few words, his voice raw with suppressed tears.

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock gave one of his careless shrugs, like they were back in Buckingham palace, Sherlock in his sheet and John fighting to keep his criminal record clean.

"Well I couldn't just leave you here to mope." Sherlock leaned back, curling his hands under his chin.

It was getting harder and harder for John to breathe, sobs kept tangling in his throat and choking him. He refused to release them, taking steadying garbled breaths and forcing himself to calm. Fighting off the tears that were threatening to cloud his vision.

"If I blink...will you go away?"

Sherlock's cerulean eyes narrowed, his head cocked in debate.

"I don't know." There was mild surprise in his voice. John nodded, keeping Sherlock in the corner of his eye as he wobbled to his feet.

"Never thought I'd see the day." John quipped shakily.

"You still haven't." Sherlock watched John closely, his eyes flashing like polished glass. "I'm an illusion John. You will see what you want to see, but it isn't happening. I'm a product of your own mind." He heaved an aggrieved sigh. "Imagine what it's done for my intelligence."

John chuckled harshly, his eyes falling to the floor.

"Well it hasn't done much for your people skills." When he looked up again 221b. was empty. "Sherlock?" There was no reply. He hadn't expected one.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time John had seen Anderson after Sherlock's death the man wouldn't look up from his toes. The second time he'd seen him, he wouldn't stop preening, apparently outing the infamous detective had warranted a pay raise and a promotion. John had forced himself to walk away before he broke the annoying man's over large nose. He hadn't bothered to return to the Yard after that and had told Lestrade anything else that needed 'sorted out' would have to be done through the mail. Sergeant Donovan had sent him a line through his blog, he'd gotten as far as 'I'm sorry for your loss, but I did try to warn you.' and deleted the whole thing before he did something he wouldn't necessarily regret. Lestrade had called him up a few times, but the conversations had been stiff and awkward, Sherlock's death sitting like a wedge between them and eventually they had both pulled away. John hadn't heard from Molly since her teary "I'm sorry." at the funeral, and he suspected she was avoiding him. He couldn't think why and decided it had something to do with memories and grief. Of all his supposed friends all John had left now was Mrs. Hudson and the occasional kind bible verse from Ms. Turner next door. It was as if the last two years had never happened. And he had nothing but a skull and his own failing mind to remind him that it had.

_John tailed after Sherlock down the lazy London street. He couldn't remember if they had a case, but he wasn't worried. These things tended to pop up around Sherlock, no matter what. John chalked it up to luck, he just wasn't sure if it was good or bad. Perhaps a queer mixture of both. What did concern him were the look's people seemed to be giving his friend. They turned their heads to follow his progress down the street._

" _He's not real." Anderson told him as he passed, decked out in scrubs, chocolate smeared across his face._

" _He's a fake." Donovan agreed from the opposite side of the sidewalk. "Just look at his eyes." She held them out in her hands, a pair of painted glass eyes._

" _I'm sorry." Molly murmured behind him, John spun and- was she wearing Sherlock's coat?_

" _Now let him be." Mrs. Hudson gripped his arm, reaching up to pat his cheek. "Don't you worry dear, Mrs. Turner's got married ones!" She pointed across the street where Mrs. Turner was hefting a pair of porcelain dolls, beaming and waving._

" _Wha-" John stammered, trying to stand still in a sea of changing faces. "No..."_

" _It's true John." And that was Sherlock's own voice, drawing John back around to where the detective stood in front of him, arms spread wide, hands limp, thin slippery wire rising from his shoulders and wrists._

" _Look up." Mycroft demanded and John did._

_All the way up to the clouds where Moriarty stood, larger then life and smiling his Cheshire grin, jerking Sherlock's strings._

" _Hello Johnny boy!"_

" _NO!-_

Ah!"

John blinked in the sudden flood of light, chest heaving, his blankets sticky with sweat.A dream. He sighed and relaxed back into his pillow. Another dream. Twisting to his side he fumbled for the clock. 6:12am. He'd almost managed five hours.

"Not a bad night." He forced himself upright, running his hands down his face with a sigh. "Not particularly good but uh..." He nodded wearily, reaching an absent hand to rub at his aching leg. "Not...not bad." He cleared his throat, throwing back the blankets and working his way out of bed, frowining as the pain in his leg persisted. When a few moments of heavy massage failed to aleviate it John decided to ignore it in favor of a shower. It wasn't the first time his leg had given him trouble, especially in the early morning and a few minutes beneath the hot water had been known to help.

Gathering his towel, John limped to the washroom, wincing with every downward step. The sweat from his nightmare chilled on his skin in the early morning air and he shuddered. Moriarty's skull like grin wouldn't wash away from his mind, no matter how often he blinked and John found his aggresion rising with each second the image lingered in his brain. If he'd been given time with that bastard-, he stopped leaning heavily against the bathroom door, his breath coming in haggard huffs, his leg aching resentfully. It was too late for that now. The bloody ponce had taken the cowards way out, and taken his friend with him... leaving John to pick up the pieces... God he wished there were more pieces. He wrenched the loo door open, only partialy surprised to find Sherlock leaning over the sink.

The slueth looked up as John regarded him from the doorway, leaning to take the pressure off his bad leg.

"Morning." He gave John a once over, his lips tightening in response to something he saw. "Limp's coming back." He returned his attention to the sink, peering through his collapsable magnifying glass.

"No it isn't." John's voice was soft and hoarse, his grip tightening on the doorjam. Sherlock made a small noise of disagreement, before glancing back at his flatmate, whose head was bowed, chest pumping as he fought for breath. Each inhale rattled in John's chest, and Sherlock's face showed a jolt of surprise as he realized that his friend was crying.

John tried not to shake as he drew in breath after breath, and when he looked up, he had to blink away visions of strings tangling over Sherlock's head, and around his neck, Moriarty's breathless giggle whispering across his neck.

"You're not a fake." John blurted at last, standing to military attention and pressing his lips together to stop the sobs. Sherlock's answering expression was one of pity and annoyance.

"Oh John you were making such progress!" He slapped angry palms against the sink. "We discussed this." he gave a bored sigh, peeling something that looked like mold up from the sink.

"No, I mean, you were- you weren't a fake." he cleared his throat. Sherlock had grown still. "You never lied to me Sherlock." Sherlock opened his mouth as if to protest but John spoke over him. "Not about this, not about you." he jabbed a finger at the frowning detective. "You are- were-" He took a moment to compose himself. "One hundred percent real." He fixed Sherlock with his most determined look, nodding his head in decision. "And nothing anyone says is going to convince me otherwise, so..." He dropped his eyes to the floor, still nodding determinedly.

"John..." Sherlock began, but when he raised his head, the bathroom was empty. Squaring his shoulders John continued with his shower, his fist gripped tight against the pain in his leg and the tears in his eyes. And though John stayed under the hot spray longer then he would have liked, the soothing water eventually washed the pain from his leg... but it did nothing for the tears in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> There can be more chapters. All I need is some reviews.


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